Chapter 4 - Wings of Thunder
The roar of the Sikorsky twin-engine helicopter tore the night sky open above the Grand Elysium Hotel. Wind whipped through my hair, cold and sharp, contrasting against the fiery, unrelenting agony contracting deep inside my belly.
"Stay with me, Vivvy. Look at your old man," Arthur Thorne commanded, his voice trembling in a way that terrified me more than the labor pains. The man who had just snapped the Vance family’s financial spine like a dry twig was pale, kneeling beside the stretcher as three top-tier obstetricians in sterile gear surrounded me inside the airborne intensive care unit.
"She’s fully effaced! Contractions are two minutes apart!" a doctor shouted over the drone of the rotor blades. "Chairman, her blood pressure is dropping dangerously low from the prolonged stress!"
"If so much as a single hair on my daughter's head is harmed, Dr. Keller," Arthur said, his eyes flashing with lethal calm, "I will pull every grant, every fellowship, and every hospital wing that carries your family’s name. Save her. Save my grandchild."
"Dad..." I choked out, a sob wracking my chest. The trauma of the last nine months—the insults, the cold floorboards in the Vance mansion where Eleanor made me scrub on my knees, Daniel’s cruel laughter when he handed Chloe the diamond ring that belonged to my dead mother—surged through my veins. "I’m scared..."
"You are a Thorne," Arthur whispered fiercely, kissing my sweaty forehead. "You survived the wolves in sheep’s clothing. You do not die today. You reign."
Another white-hot wave of pain ripped through me. I screamed, gripping the padded railings until my knuckles turned bloodless. Through the cabin window, I saw the city lights below—and somewhere down there, in the dim, flashing red-and-blue lights of police cruisers, Daniel Vance was staring up at the sky, realizing the woman he called a penniless parasite held his very soul in her hands.
Twenty-five minutes later, inside the penthouse surgical theater of St. Jude Thorne Memorial, the world went quiet.
A sharp, clear, indignant cry pierced the sterile air.
"A daughter," Dr. Keller announced, lifting a tiny, flushed bundle wrapped in warm fleece. "Seven pounds, perfectly healthy."
Tears streamed hot and fast down my cheeks as they laid the baby on my bare chest. She had a mop of dark hair and dark, searching eyes.
May you like
"Aurelia," I whispered, pressing my lips to her soft temple. "Your name is Aurelia Thorne. And you will never, ever kneel to anyone."
Beside me, Arthur wiped a single tear from his weathered face, his thumb softly brushing Aurelia's cheek. "The Vance bloodline ends tonight. From this moment on, she belongs to the empire."